


Rather Love Than Fight

by kjack89



Series: The Story of Us (Fairytale AU) [6]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Crack, Fluff, Kissing, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Undecided Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 03:18:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2294819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Grantaire is sent to negotiate the terms of peace between Enjolras and his father. If they could actually discuss terms instead of just, you know, arguing and passionate necking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rather Love Than Fight

**Author's Note:**

> Usual disclaimer. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

“We have to.”

Combeferre’s voice was calm but firm, and Courfeyrac shook his head and stabbed his finger at the piece of parchment unfurled on the table. “We do  _not_  have to,” he said hotly. “We’re staging a revolution, not fighting a war, which means we are not bound to the same rules of propriety — such as they are.”

“But without following the rules of propriety in warfare, we risk losing what support we’ve gained, support that is or could be invaluable,” Combeferre argued. “Besides which, circumstances being as they are, we should leave the decision to Enjolras as this will undoubtedly affect him more.”

From where he was leaning against the door, Enjolras asked in a voice more amused than anything, “And what exactly am I supposed to be deciding?”

Both Combeferre and Courfeyrac looked over, each looking equally guilty. “We’ve received word,” Combeferre told him, his tone turning a little grim as he gestured at the parchment. “From your father.”

Enjolras’s entire demeanor instantly shifted, and he strode over to the table. “What word?” he asked, something urgent in his tone. “Any word on Grantaire?” He didn’t let either of them answer, instead bending over the parchment and reading for himself:

“ _To the traitors known as ‘Les Amis de l’ABC’,_

_At midnight on the second day of the new moon, our emissary, Grantaire, will present himself on neutral ground at Centaur Lake to receive your emissary to negotiate the terms of peace._

_I do not want war, and I do not want to unnecessarily slaughter those who used to be loyal citizens. I especially hope to make peace with my son, so that he can retake his place at my side with his husband and become the ruler that I know he was meant to be._

_Under the rules of warfare as established five centuries ago by the great rulers of the land, our emissary and yours will be granted safe conduct and the customary twenty-fours hours of negotiation time. Our emissary and yours shall be unarmed and unaccompanied and guaranteed safe conduct to and from the meeting location. Any deviation from this or any harm to either emissary shall be seen as breaking the rules of warfare._

_Enjolras, my son — your husband misses you. End this now, before what cannot be undone is._ ”

“Signed by the King’s own Hand,” Enjolras finished, a little hollowly, and all three men were silent for a long moment afterwards.

In an attempt to break the awkward silence, Combeferre said quickly, “Did you know that in the kingdom of Westeros across the seas, the King’s Hand is an actual position in court? It’s quite fascinating, really, and—”

“And we’re not in Westeros,” Enjolras said quietly. “And here, the King’s Hand means he took the time and effort to write this himself, which for a man such as my father, is a big enough deal to not be dismissed easily.”

Courfeyrac shook his head slowly. “But why?” he asked. “Why take the time to handwrite this missive, as if he thinks it will have an impact on you?”

Enjolras laughed, a dry, bitter laugh. “Because that’s exactly what he thinks. This entire  _charade_  is meant to get to me. He knows what it used to mean to me when I was locked in that tower to receive a letter that he himself had written. I only ever got one or two a year, at most.” His tone was bitter and caustic as he added, “Like everything, even that small sign of what some would consider love was a bargaining tool. Just as this is as well. And getting Grantaire involved is exactly the same — flaunting in my face that he has something that I want, and if I act like a good little boy and give up on my foolish ways, I’ll get it back.”

There was another moment of silence before Combeferre laughed out loud, drawing a startled look from both Courfeyrac and Enjolras. “Oh, come on,” he scoffed. “Does your father really know you that little?”

Enjolras smiled slightly, a genuine smile. “Apparently,” he agreed, glancing down at the parchment. “If he truly knew me, he’d know two things: firstly, I don’t need to play by the rules to get what I want; secondly, I will do whatever it takes to get what I want.”

With that, he rolled up the parchment and turned to leave, though Courfeyrac called after him, “Where are you going?”

“To return my father’s message and confirm that I will attend as emissary,” Enjolras said with turning back around.

Combeferre looked triumphant, and Courfeyrac said exasperatedly, “You don’t have to do this —  _we_  don’t have to do this. Attending a peace meeting when we have no intention of negotiating peace is useless and will only play into your father’s hands.”

Now Enjolras did turn, a smile on his face as he told Courfeyrac, “I have no intention of negotiating peace. But I have every intention of getting what I want. And at the moment, that includes my husband.”

* * *

 

Grantaire stood stiffly underneath the blue and red banner bearing King Jean’s sigil, dressed in borrowed clothing that was significantly nicer than any he had ever owned, fine silk and brocade, a silver crown on his head. He looked ridiculous, he was sure, dolled up as if that would somehow win Enjolras over, as if Enjolras wouldn’t instead turn his nose up at the trappings of aristocracy and nobility.

It couldn’t be clearer that King Jean had no concept of the man his son had become, or even the child he had once been.

But Grantaire did — or at least, he thought he did, from the time they had spent together. And for a brief moment, he had hoped to learn more from the life they were went to spend together. Enjolras had destroyed that hope when he had left Grantaire, which was no more than Grantaire should have expected, to be honest. But that did nothing to lessen the pain in his chest when he saw Enjolras slowly making his way through the clearing across from him, bearing a banner of simple red, his own clothes also as simple as any Grantaire had seen him wear. “Grantaire!” he called, something like relief in his voice, and Grantaire straightened, trying to force a smile onto his face.

“Enjolras.” Relief colored Grantaire’s tone as well, though it was tinged with caution, and he looked warily behind Enjolras. “You’re alone?”

Enjolras stopped in his tracks, a scowl darkening his expression. “I followed my father’s terms to the letter,” he told Grantaire. “I assume you are similarly alone? And unarmed?”

Grantaire let out a weary sort of laugh. “As if I could ever hurt you.”

Now Enjolras’s face softened, and he took a few more steps further. “I hope you know — I hope you realize — I never intended for you to get caught up in this. I never intended for you to get hurt, by my actions or my father’s.”

“I realize that,” Grantaire said, his voice low. “Doesn’t make it any easier, though.” He strode forward to the stump in the middle of the clearing that would act as their parley table and pulled a scroll from his sleeve, rolling it open on the stump. “I bring your father’s terms of surrender. The so-called ‘Les Amis de l’ABC’ will immediately disband and disperse. Any weapons that Les Amis have gathered are to be surrendered to the National Guard. Any alliances declared between Les Amis and any kingdoms or other traitor groups will be immediately dissolved. Any—”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras interrupted quietly. “We really don’t have to do that right away. Or at all, since I think you realize that I didn’t come here to negotiate peace.”

Grantaire shook his head, avoiding Enjolras’s gaze. “If you didn’t come here to negotiate peace, then what do you want?”

Enjolras narrowed his eyes. “For starters, I’d love to know what my father did to you to make you act like this instead of the man who rescued me from a tower and a dragon.” Grantaire looked up sharply, and Enjolras smiled almost viciously. “Because trust me, it will give me great pleasure to return to him twofold whatever he has done to you.”

For a moment, it looked like Grantaire might smile or laugh, but then he seemed to curl in on himself, his expression shuttering. “The only thing that your father has done to me is remind me exactly what is at stake,” he said quietly. “And for that reason, I greatly hope that you will reconsider negotiating peace.”

“What did my father tell you was at stake?” Enjolras asked, equally quiet.

Grantaire laughed, the same weary, broken laugh as before. “Why, your life, of course. What other bargaining chip is there to hold over me? He assured me that if the battle went on, you would die, and there is nothing I would do to stop that from happening.”

Enjolras froze, his expression dark. “Have you that little faith in our rebellion?” he asked, deathly quiet. “Have you that little faith in  _me_?”

Grantaire met his glare easily. “I have  _every_  faith in you, and you alone. But your father is better armed and better funded with more soldiers and other nations on his side. And yours is a cause you know I have never believed in.”

“So that’s it, then? You came here in hopes of negotiating some kind of peace in exchange for my life? But — why?”

“Do you really not know?” Grantaire asked, sounding almost amused. “Because your life is the only thing of value to me. Because those six months we spent together were the best of my entire life. Because when we spoke our wedding vows, I…” He hesitated for the first time, a flush appearing high on his cheeks before finishing, so quietly that Enjolras almost couldn’t hear him. “For me, I meant what I said that day. And you didn’t, I know — this marriage was a means to an end for you, I get that, I respect that. But what’s followed from this, my time spent in your father’s company…whether you meant it or not, I’m in a prime location to protect you as best I can. And that means convincing you to not do this.”

Enjolras hesitated, unsure of himself, but then reached out for Grantaire, tentatively cupping his cheek, rubbing his thumb across his cheekbone in a gesture that was incredibly intimate for both of them, and Grantaire froze at the touch, staring at Enjolras. “You’re wrong about so many things,” he said quietly, “the least of which being the way I view what’s between us, but what I need you to know most of all is that I  _can’t_ give up on this. It’s so much more important than me — and as much as I may hate to admit it, so much more than you.”

Grantaire’s eyes searched Enjolras’s, and without a word he leaned in to kiss him. Enjolras was surprised for a moment but then kissed back in kind, his free hand dropping to rest possessively on Grantaire’s hip. Grantaire growled low in his throat and lifted Enjolras by his ass to set him on the tree stump, settling in between his legs.

Enjolras’s lips dropped from Grantaire’s to nip along his jaw before sucking a bruise at the hinge where his jaw met his neck and Grantaire groaned. “Why didn’t we do this before?” he managed to ask.

“We were a little preoccupied with getting back to the kingdom,” Enjolras pointed out, far too logically for Grantaire’s liking, since he was practically coming apart with just the feel of Enjolras’s hands and lips against him. “And besides I didn’t really know what I felt.”

Grantaire pulled back slightly, dropping his hands from Enjolras’s side. “And you know what you feel now?” he asked carefully.

In answer, Enjolras reached out and pulled Grantaire back in, kissing him fiercely. “Does that answer your question?” he asked, a little breathlessly. Grantaire just growled again and kissed him, half-climbing on top of him as Enjolras groaned and tugged at Grantaire’s shirt. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” he muttered, which caused Grantaire to stop and pull away slightly, frowning. “That was not the reaction I was hoping for,” Enjolras complained.

Shaking his head, Grantaire smoothed his shirt back into place. “Enjolras,” he said, his voice strained. “You have  _absolutely_  no idea how much I want to do…that. But this is not the time or the place, not for our first time together.”

Enjolras groaned and sat up. “What if I promise to sign your peace terms?” he asked, blinking innocently up at Grantaire.

“There’s no way you would trade your rebellion for sex,” Grantaire said calmly, recovering slightly. “Though I am slightly flattered that you would even pretend that I was worth that.”

Laughing, Enjolras stood and crossed over to Grantaire, kissing his cheek. “You are the closest thing to being worth it,” he told him honestly. “And it was worth a try.”

He started to pull away but Grantaire caught his arm, holding him in place. “When all this is over, however it turns out, if you and I are still alive, I will make good on what could have happened today. I promise you that. So long as you still want it, because Lord knows I will.”

Enjolras sobered up quickly, his expression turning serious as he looked at Grantaire. “If we are still alive?” he asked quietly.

Grantaire shrugged. “You know my confidence in you making it through unscathed is not particularly great. But for myself, well, let’s just say since I woke up on the morning after our wedding to find you gone I’ve assumed that I’m not going to make it out of this alive.”

“Don’t say that,” Enjolras said sharply, twisting out of Grantaire’s grip so that he could take both of Grantaire’s hands in his. “We will both get through this. You don’t have to go back to my father. You can come back with me.”

“No.” Grantaire’s voice was quiet but determined. “No, I can’t. If I go with you, your father has no motivation to postpone attacking you, and I know you all aren’t ready for that. For you to have the best chance of winning, of making it out of here alive, I have to go back.”

Though Enjolras didn’t look convinced, he nonetheless bowed his head in acquiescence. “Then I suppose at the very least you can deliver my own terms back to my father.”

Grantaire cocked his head at him. “The terms of your surrender?”

“No.” Enjolras smiled. “The terms of his.” He tangled his fingers with Grantaire’s. “But in the meantime, we have twenty-four hours of guaranteed time together, and while we might not be having sex, there’s still plenty that we can do in the meantime.”

Smiling, Grantaire leaned in to kiss the corner of Enjolras’s mouth. “Sounds like a plan.”

* * *

 

King Jean rose from his throne as soon as Grantaire entered the throne room. “Prince Grantaire,” he said loudly. “What news from my wayward son?”

“I return with his terms,” Grantaire told him, pausing to give an approximation of the appropriate bow before extending a scroll of parchment. “I’ve taken the liberty of writing them down so I did not forgive them.”

Surprised, Jean snatched the scroll from Grantaire’s hand, asking, “He actually gave terms for his surrender? I didn’t—” He broke off as he read the first few lines, suddenly crumpling the parchment between his hands. “He sent you terms for  _my_  surrender,” he said, deathly quiet, and Grantaire smirked up at him.

“Well, yes, he seemed to think—”

King Jean backhanded Grantaire across the face, sending him spinning to the ground. “I do not care what my son  _thinks_ ,” he spat. “You were not sent there to learn what he thinks, you were sent there to convince him to give up this charade by any means necessary.”

Grantaire turned back towards the king, his eyes blazing as he said coldly, “You may not care what he thinks, but he said that if you hurt me, he would kill you himself.” Slowly, he got to his feet, holding a hand against his rapidly-swelling cheek. “It appears I now have  _something_  to look forward to in this upcoming battle.”

King Jean just snorted, still clutching the crumpled terms in his hand. “Get out of my sight,” he snarled, turning back to his throne.

Grantaire bowed shakily. “With pleasure, my lord.” He turned and walked out of the throne room, unable to stop the small smile that spread across his face as he did.


End file.
